


Recurrence

by heatherchandler (heathermylove)



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Gen, Groundhog Day, Supernatural Elements, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathermylove/pseuds/heatherchandler
Summary: Heather Chandler dies. And then she wakes up alive and well, and it's the morning before the Remington party.





	Recurrence

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [heatherchandler (heathermylove)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathermylove/pseuds/heatherchandler) in the [Heathers_Fanfic_Challenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Heathers_Fanfic_Challenge) collection. 



> Here's my entry for the Heathers Fall Fanfic Challenge being run by Scouts_Mockingbird! I've been ruminating on this story germ for a long time and I can't wait to finally bring it to fruition. Thank you for reading!

**DAY ZERO**

“I don’t understand the question.” The girl sat at Betty Finn’s table, her cowlike eyes magnified by the lenses of her Coke-bottle glasses. “Could you, uh, repeat it?” She fidgeted with her milk carton. “P-please?”

 _Pathetic,_ Heather Chandler thought to herself as she drummed her fingernails over the red clipboard. _I’d almost feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so fucking ugly._ “It’s not my fault you’re too vapid to comprehend such a simple question.” She smiled sweetly, speaking as if she were addressing a kindergartner. “You d-”

“Heather.” Veronica Sawyer stared daggers into her lunchtime poll companion. “ _Please.”_

Heather responded with an icy glare of her own.

“Fine. I’ll put it this way.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve got five million dollars in your bank account and two days left to live. What do you do with the money?”

The girl’s mouth hung open in the shape of a tiny ‘o’. Were there any cogs turning in that tiny pea brain? It was impossible to tell how much of that simple rewording the girl had comprehended, if any. Finally, she gave her answer: “World peace.”

“I beg your pardon?” Heather’s lips curled into a judgmental scowl.

“World peace,” the girl repeated with a chipper grin. “I’d j-just give all of the world leaders a lump sum of the money and, and… they’d all stop fighting, I guess.” She tugged at her shirt. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”  

Heather’s eyes narrowed. In her peripheral vision, she saw Veronica shrink back. Heather was about to go for the kill, and Veronica wanted to at least pretend she hadn’t played a part in the bloodshed.

“You’re _adorable,_ you know that?” Heather laughed. The dowdy girl pushed her enormous glasses up an inch on her nose. “You go ahead and knock on Gorbachev’s door, ask him to knock down the wall. Let me know how that goes, okay? _Get real._ ”

 Veronica couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed Heather by the shoulder and tugged her away from her target.

“You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?” she hissed, even as Heather pulled her hand away. “Fine. You tell me, then. What would _you_ do if you only had two days left to live? Huh? You know what, don’t answer that. Because I _know_ you, Heather. You wouldn’t even _try_ to become a better person. I know that for a goddamn fact.”

“Damn, Sawyer. That’s a nice high horse you’ve got there.” Heather responded dryly. “Now hop off and let’s get this stupid fucking poll out of the way.” She shoved the clipboard into Veronica’s hand and began strutting towards the football players’ table.

* * *

Everything went black the moment she fell through the glass, but she never hit the ground. Heather was falling, falling slowly through somethingness and nothingness, an inky black void that swirled around her and through her, trying to pull her in but something -

* * *

**DAY ONE**

Heather Chandler bolted upright in her bed. _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the FUCK._ Her sheets were soaked with sweat and she patted her chest to confirm, yes, she was here, she was real, _why the fuck wouldn’t I be real,_ and, across the room, the rising sun glinted on the surface of her coffee table. Her completely intact glass coffee table.

Heather slipped out of bed and paced across her room. She pressed her hands against the cold glass surface of the table. It was real, she was real, she was _alive._

 _A bad dream,_ her sense of reason seemed to say. _A very, very, vivid bad dream. That’s all it was. Right?_

  _It was a bad dream it was a bad dream it was just a fucking nightmare._ She repeated it like some unholy mantra as she slipped into her culottes. _It was just a bad dream,_ she reassured herself as she buttoned up her blazer. _It was only a bad dream,_ she had to remind herself as she teased her hair, and again as she tried to apply her makeup with trembling fingers. She chanted it under her breath as she marched downstairs to grab her car keys.

And then she saw the calendar in the kitchen. _Friday, March 26th, 1988._ Heather blinked. Once. Twice. A feeling of unshakeable dread churned in her insides.

 Something was very, very, wrong.

 The drive to school was unremarkable. Heather sailed down Main Street with a dazed expression. Her body was on autopilot as she kept trying to rationalize her situation, come up with _some_ excuse for what was going on.

After what seemed like an eternity, she careened into the school parking lot, nearly colliding with a parked motorcycle as she slid into her parking spot.

 “Hey, watch it!” Clyde the metalhead shouted from his perch on the school steps. “That’s my fucking baby.”

Heather flipped him the bird as she marched past him.

 As usual, Heather, Heather, and Veronica flanked the entryway, awaiting their leader’s arrival. Heather Duke looked lost in thought, Heather McNamara was taking a drag on a cigarette, and Veronica was scribbling away madly in that fucking diary of hers. Fucking Veronica. Heather found herself staring as Veronica continued to scrawl. She wanted to grab her by the shoulders and scream in her face and ask her if she knew what she’d done.

 _Did you know what was in the cup?_ she wanted to hiss. _Did you really think killing me would magically solve all of your problems? Do you even know that I died?_

 “Heather!” Heather Duke broke her out of her trance. “What’s going on with you? You look like a goddamn ghost.”

 _Maybe I am a ghost,_ she thought to herself. _Damn it, what the hell is going on? I thought I fucking died!_

“Skipped breakfast,” Heather Chandler finally murmured. It was a lame excuse, but Duke seemed to buy it. She was the expert on dieting, after all. “Let’s motor. Today’s lunchtime poll is going to be a good one.”

* * *

As she went through the motions of first and second periods, she realized she’d sat through the lectures before. The the horrible feeling in Heather’s gut continued to worsen. A part of her wanted to spend the rest of the day hiding in the bathroom.

In third period, Miss Fleming handed out a pop quiz. She’d seen it before, and she still didn’t know any of the answers. Not like she cared about her grades, anyway. Her dad had the school board wrapped around his little finger.

By the time the lunch bell pealed, Heather Chandler was absolutely certain she was going batshit insane.

 The lunchtime poll answers didn’t change either.

Fucking Courtney still wanted to give it all to the homeless. “Every cent,” she said with mock sweetness that made Heather want to gag. And just like clockwork, Veronica responded, “You’re beautiful.” Heather’s throat tightened, and for a split second she thought she was going to cry. Before her emotions could overpower her, she dragged Veronica away and pulled her back towards the Heathers’ lunch table.

“If you’re openly going to be a bitch…”

* * *

After Heather Duke’s daily trip to the bathroom, they returned to the cafeteria, where Veronica was staring lovingly at the dark-haired kid seated alone in the rightmost corner of the lunchroom.

“God, Veronica, drool much?” Heather McNamara teased. “His name’s -”

“Jason Dean,” Heather Chandler interrupted. “I know. He’s in your American History class.”

McNamara gave Chandler a bewildered stare, but Heather ignored her confusion and shoved her clipboard into Veronica’s hands.

“I’ll be your wingman, Sawyer. Go ask him the question.”

It was Veronica’s turn to be bewildered, but she finally gave Heather a little nod before sauntering over to his table.

 

After Veronica was out of earshot, Duke pulled the other two Heathers aside.

“Okay, Heather, I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but what the  _hell_ is going on with you?” Duke asked with surprising boldness.

“Yeah, no offense and stuff, but you’ve been acting weird all day.” McNamara chimed.

“Look, I’ll explain later. Scout’s honor.” It was a lie, of course. “We need to go. Now. He has a gun.”

 That got the girls’ attention.

 “We should head back to the bathroom,” Duke offered timidly. “Hide there.”

“We can’t leave Veronica behind!” McNamara protested.

 “I’ll go get her.”

 Chandler turned on her heels and marched over to where Veronica stood, entranced by Jason Dean’s charm.

“Time to go.” Heather glared daggers into Jason and dragged Veronica, still grinning like an idiot, towards the cafeteria entrance.

* * *

The hours after the gunshot and before the Remington party were a blur.

Throughout it all, Heather felt like her legs could give out beneath her at any moment, and she’d be back to falling eternally through that dark void she’d seen in her dream (because it _was_ a dream, that’s all it was).

 Once again, Jason and Veronica shared a tender moment at the Snappy Snack Shack. As she pounded on her car horn with growing anger, Heather had to wonder what the fuck Veronica saw in that creep.

After the fourth or fifth honk, Veronica finally ambled into Heather’s car. She gave Jason one last wave before Heather rocketed out of the parking lot.

 “Heather, what’s your damage?” Veronica demanded between sips of her slushie. “This is the second time today - ”

“I don’t know if you remember what we’re doing, but we’ve got a party to get to. A _Remington_ party.” Heather kept her steely gaze on the road ahead. “You can show up fashionably late to any Westerburg rager, but shit like that doesn’t slide at college parties. It’s not good for our reputation.”

 The party itself wasn’t anything remarkable. Heather downed shot after shot. The vodka burned her throat but she downed about six glasses anyway, trying to make herself feel _something_. She made out with David, let him do the work, let him push her head down. She stood in the bathroom with only her reflection as company. What was she? Living? Dead? Something in between? A sudden wave of revulsion overcame her, and she threw a punch, as hard as she could, into the mirror. She thrust her fist into the glass and her face shattered.

As she tended to her bloody knuckle, Brad meandered over to her and whined in her ear.

“She’s not putting out, what’s up with that? You told me she’d be game.” Heather shoved him aside and stormed towards Veronica.

 Everything happened the same way: Heather complained. Veronica vomited. The fire raged in the alleyway. The confrontation. The vow of social ruin. It made her head fucking spin.

 It was an absolute miracle that Heather didn’t get pulled over on her way home. Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely control the steering wheel, and her trembling legs struggled to man the gas pedal and brakes. Her whole body seemed to convulse with alternating rage and terror.

 The grandfather clock downstairs chimed two in the morning as she opened the door to her room. Heather’s heart raced as she stripped to her intimates. She threw her party clothes into a pile in the corner, slipped into her pink robe, and let herself sink into the oblivion of a dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Good morning, Heather.”

 It was Veronica’s voice. God damn it.

 Heather untangled her body from her silk sheets to address her two home intruders. “Veronica. And Jesse James. _Quelle surprise._ ” She looked him over. Greasy hair. Beady, conniving eyes. He was still wearing that stupid fucking trench coat. Heather imagined perhaps he slept with it on. And in his hand - a ceramic mug from her mother’s favorite china set. “How the hell did you two get in here?”

“Well, ah, I was surprised, actually,” Jason said. “You know, with a house like this, I imagined your family could afford better locks.” That elicited an amused giggle from Veronica. “Besides, Veronica here knew you’d have a hangover, so I whipped up an old family recipe for you.” 

Veronica was right. Her head throbbed and her whole body felt heavy. But even through her mental haze, she still felt a twang of horror. The realization finally came back to her.

“Oh, really? What’s your family recipe? Rat piss? I’m not taking that shit unless I know exactly what’s in the mug.”

“It’s - it’s just milk and orange juice, Heather.” Veronica piped up.

“Milk and orange juice,” Heather repeated with a smirk. “So if you take the lid off that mug, that’s what’s going to be in there, right? No phlegm globbers, no bullshit, no rat poison?”

Veronica and Jason exchanged a nervous glance. Heather had caught them in their tracks. A wave of relief washed over her.

“Open the fucking lid, jackass,” she demanded.

He obeyed, lifting the lid and peering into the contents of the cup. “It’s milk and orange juice. Nothing else.” He placed the lid back on the mug.

Heather rose from her bed. The sudden rush of blood to her head made her dizzy and temporarily blind, but after she overcame that, she walked calmly to Jason and snatched the cup out of his hands.

It wasn’t until after Heather had downed the whole mug that she felt her throat began to constrict. It wasn’t milk and orange juice, after all.

  _God damn it,_ she thought to herself as darkness began to envelop her vision. _I’ve been had._

 She fell through the glass and into a black hole.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing, feel free to drop a kudos and/or a comment! 
> 
> And follow me on Tumblr: ghostheather.tumblr.com


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